


Butterfly stitches

by honeybeem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-TFP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 17:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeem/pseuds/honeybeem
Summary: John patches Sherlock up after he comes home with a bleeding face and they have a heart to heart for the first time in a while.





	Butterfly stitches

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write something that was set after series four as my ideas are usually pre-Mary. I also love the idea of John and Sherlock raising Rosie together so wanted to write how that could come about.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated. Thanks!

So in tune, he was these days, to the sound of tiptoed feet across the landing - Rosie’s bedtime routine of exploration and hiding before sleep - that the hushed sound of footfall on the stairs was enough to jerk John awake from his doze at the fireside.  
He’d been out half an hour, a glass of brandy very nearly tipped upon his lap and a copy of the new James Patterson novel resting across his chest.  
He sat up a little straighter, straining to hear the weight and pace of the disturbing footsteps.  
Rosie’s were light but still held that ungraceful swing of a pair not-yet-entirely-figured-out by their owner. A toddle, in short.  
Sherlock’s were as catlike as ever, even more so between the hours of 7pm and 6am when the volume of the house was dictated by a slumbering two-year-old.  
Long gone were the days of violin concertos at three in the morning or wake up calls to gunfire in the living room.  
At the sound of the final step of the stairs squeaking, the quiet thud of quality shoes on wood, John breathed.  
Sherlock.  
The man had left 221b just after dinner, mumbling something about a suspect at a theatre show. It was often the case that suspects just so happened to materialise come bedtime. John had his own theory that Sherlock simply didn’t want to encroach on daddy-daughter time.  
The door to the main room opened slowly and John rubbed a hand across his face, pawing away any drool that would be a tell-tale sign of his snooze. That being said, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes he was trying to trick - a certain crease on the armchair or a fold of his cardigan would give him away.  
A mop of dark curls appear from behind the door, a pair of light eyes scanned the scene in the semi darkness.  
“All clear?” Sherlock asked.  
“Oh, ugh, yeah. She went down about an hour ago,” John replied, running a hand through his hair as he remembered that that would be a dead giveaway too.  
“Good, I may need your assistance,” said Sherlock, closing the door behind him with one hand, his other pressing a handkerchief to his face.  
John looked up, a loud sigh escaping him before he downed the rest of his brandy and put his tumbler down at his side. “Dare I ask? Auditioning for a part in the Phantom of the Opera?”  
Sherlock frowned. One look told John that the musical back catalogue of Andrew Lloyd Webber had long been deleted from the detective’s hard drive if it had ever been there at all.  
The taller man awkwardly discarded of his Belstaff before taking his seat at the fireside. It must have been raining outside for his trouser legs and shoes glistened with a dewy shimmer only encountered when braving midwinter weather in London.  
“Don’t be angry with me,” Sherlock said, lowering the handkerchief to reveal a smattering of angry looking gashes across his cheek.  
John leaned in to get a better look. The wounds were not particularly deep but the instrument that had caused them had been sharp, no doubt the attack had been expected and partially combatted. A twinkle of something at the edges of the cuts - different from the rain shine of Sherlock’s trousers - suggested splintering, glass then. The placement of several small gashes in a compact space pointed to the weapon being a bottle of some kind rather than a single shard.  
“Wound someone up at the pub?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, dabbing at the wound with his cloth. “When do I wind people up?”  
The corner of John’s mouth curled slightly. “Go on then,” he said getting to his feet and stretching. “Tell me what happened and I’ll get the kit.”  
He shuffled to the kitchen, passing the table where an experiment involving parchment paper and Coco Pops had been left abandoned by his daughter and flatmate earlier in the day.  
“Why do they always run, John? It was an easy one...I picked an easy one.” Sherlock huffed, staring into the dying fire, tracing a hand over the leather arm of his chair.  
“Your face is too recognisable now, mate. You should start sending me out in your place...actually, on second thoughts, scrap that.”  
John rummaged around the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard above the kettle, feeling rather than looking, for what he was searching for. Tea bags...tin of beans...packet of crisps...first aid kit. “So how did you go from chasing a suspect to get glassed in the face?”  
He walked back over to the living room, medical supplies under his arm, and plonked himself down on the floor in front of the fireplace. He beckoned Sherlock to do the same, adding “I can reach you better here” when his friend hesitated.  
“Oh it was the usual tedious story, John. Man stalks star of little amdram production, she takes no notice until amourous letters start turning a tad macabre. Upon the final performance of said amdram show, said star finds said stalker in her dressing room getting a little too friendly with one of her costumes from Act Two. I then track him down to a shady little strip club in Soho where I interrupt his follow-up entertainment of harassing the scantily-clad bar staff. He then proceeds to tell me that he and Miss Amdram were very much in love and that I should keep my nose out. When I asked as to whether it was the barely legible love letters or the wanking into her clothes that won her over in the end, he let his emotions get the better of him, smashed his beer bottle on the bar and jabbed it in my face. On reflection, I may have handled the situation with a little less tact than usual. The dancers were very nice though, one of them gave me their handkerchief and called me a cab.”  
Sherlock ended his recount of the night by dropping dramatically to his knees on the rug.  
“Yes, sounds very tedious. Not sure how you stayed awake for that one,” John said, unclipping the catches on his kit and opening it up. Rummaging through, he took out a few antiseptic wipes, a pair of tweezers, some scissors and a pack of adhesive strips. He then rifled through his pockets, pulling out one of Rosie’s ladybird hairclips.  
Experience had taught him to always carry bobbles and bobbypins close nowadays because toddler hair would not be tamed by will alone.  
Without a word, he leaned into Sherlock’s space and slid the clip into his messy curls, tucking them away from the injured area.  
“I need a clear space to work on, so that will have to do,” John said before his friend could argue.  
But Sherlock didn’t argue, instead he ran his finger across the foreign object holding his hair in place and smiled slightly.  
“I’d prefer a bee, if I’m honest.”  
“Ladybird is all I have...don’t worry, it’s a good look. Think it may even rival the deerstalker. Now give me that,” John gestured to the handkerchief and Sherlock passed it to him.  
In the firelight the darker-haired man looked tired, the flickering shadows casting darkness in the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyes. John noted that there were a few more lines around his eyes than when they had last been this close to notice, there were also a few more nicks and scars dotted here and there.  
His eyes couldn’t help but fall on the thin white line between Sherlock’s brow and bridge of his nose. Unnoticeable to most, but the mark - left there by his own hand - stood out like a beacon.  
John cupped his fingers under Sherlock’s jaw and dabbed at the fresh wound, mopping away any excess blood. He gave it the professional once over before saying, “lucky for us, the cuts aren’t too deep so you won’t be subjected to my rusty sewing skills. These should do the trick.”  
John dropped the handkerchief beside them and pointed to the box of butterfly stitches, before reaching for the wipes and tearing one open.  
“Did Watson go down alright tonight?” Sherlock asked, watching John’s hands unwrap the antiseptic sheet.  
“Three stories, six songs and two great escapes to Mrs Hudson’s before she nodded off. Not the worst we’ve had this week.” John brought the balled up wipe to his friend’s face. “This might sting a bit.”  
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied before the cold sensation hit his cheek and was followed rapidly by the fierce stab of alcohol hitting open flesh. He hissed, flinched, but otherwise remained still in John’s grasp.  
“The fact of the matter is, Sherlock, she’s looking for you before going off to bed. She asks me where you go in the evenings. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she wants to make sure you’re safe before she sleeps.”  
A flash of something unfamiliar graced Sherlock’s face at these words, but it was gone momentarily and replaced with a barely-there smile. “A Watson family trait, I think,” he said.  
“Yes, probably,” John agreed, lightly dabbing at the cuts, eyes squinting to pick out any flecks of glass now visible once the blood was mopped away.  
He could feel Sherlock’s eyes upon him now, not just looking at him, but reading him, no doubt picking up on the way his hand was moving, the intensity to which he was looking at the cuts, the fact that he had unconsciously slipped his free hand onto Sherlock’s knee and given it a gentle squeeze.  
John gave a light cough before saying, “if this slew of evening cases has anything to do with Rosie-”  
“Why would it?” Sherlock asked abruptly.  
“I’m just saying, if you thought you needed to be out of the way for me and Rosie to have some daddy-daughter time, then that’s not the...err...case. In fact, I could really do with a hand. And there’s no one I would want more than you...to help with bedtime...to help with Rosie’s bedtime.”  
There was silence.  
Sherlock looked down at where John’s hand still rested on his knee and sighed.  
“If you need my help, I will give it to you, of course.”  
“Only if you want to.”  
“Of course I want to, why wouldn’t I? You’re the two people I l-” Sherlock stopped himself.  
John had a sneaking suspicion what would have followed, but that word was never used these days, not since Mary. That word belonged in a time long before grief and relapse and heartbreak.  
Sherlock’s hands were twitching as if they were unsure whether to make a move, his one, so close to John’s at his knee, was white at the knuckles.  
“You can stop dabbing that same spot if you like, John, I think you’ve cleaned it quite sufficiently,” Sherlock said with a slight coldness to his tone. His head jerked away just a fraction.  
“Right, yeah, sorry.”  
A fresh antiseptic sheet and John began tending to one of the smaller cuts just below Sherlock’s eye.  
His hand at Sherlock’s knee moved back up cup his friend’s face again, his fingers absently twirled the ends of his friend’s hair as he worked.  
“So, what happened to the suspect?” John asked, finishing the clean-up job and picking up the tweezers.  
“Tripped on a feather boa he’d stolen from Miss Amdram, knocked himself out at the foot of the club’s main stage. Police arrived as I was leaving. Like I said, tedious,” while said flatly, this recount provoked a small smile from Sherlock, whose eyes flickered to John’s; checking if he too was smiling.  
“Happy ending then...just not the sort they’re used to at that kind of club.”  
John leaned in closer, watching the firelight flicker off the cuts and counting each splinter he noticed. One, two, three….four.  
“Stay still, this won’t hurt too much,” he said, readying the tweezers.  
John felt Sherlock grab a fistful of his cardigan and shirt, a brush of the detective’s fingers was cold against his back. John took this as a sign of the younger man’s readiness for the tweezers. He chose his first shard, one just beside Sherlock’s nostril, and gave it a swift tug.  
The glass came away cleanly and Sherlock gave no reaction but a squint of his eyes and a small intake of breath.  
John wiped the tweezers clean and located the second shard, across Sherlock’s cheek.  
The detective’s hand loosened from around his clothes and came to rest palm flat on his back.  
“I’m doing a morning shift at the surgery tomorrow, maybe Mrs Hudson could have Rosie and we could do something afterwards?”  
Distracted by this suggestion, Sherlock didn’t react at all to the second splinter’s removal.  
“Start a new case?” the detective asked, unsure.  
“Well, I was thinking more dinner but you know me, dim sum and dead bodies can cross paths quite easily.” John closed the tweezers around the third shard and tugged.  
“Yes,” was all Sherlock said, his hand back to bunching a handful of John’s clothing as the older man extracted the final piece of glass. “I mean yes to dinner. Dinner would be...good.”  
“You might be sporting a black eye by tomorrow. Don’t think they’ll let us in anywhere fancy,” John said, discarding the tweezers and unboxing the adhesive strips.  
“I know a place...well I know several places.” Sherlock uncurled his hand from the hem of John’s cardigan and let it rest in his lap.  
“Dinner’s on you then,” John said wiping his hands with antibacterial gel before peeling back one of strips from its paper. Snipping it to size he placed it across the largest of Sherlock’s cuts and pressed down gently.  
Sherlock was watching him again, properly watching, eyes darting back and forth following his fingers but also his own mental game of cat and mouse that he so often fell into during a lapse in conversation.  
When the detective spoke, a few stitches already applied, his voice sounded huskier than it had been and almost timid. “I would like that very much.”  
John replied with a curt nod, as if to say ‘that’s settled then’.  
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, only for it to catch on the ladybird clip. He played with it absentmindedly as John went about sealing up the second cut.  
“Just so you know,” John began, cutting up more strips. “We - Rosie and me, I mean - we love you and as far as I’m concerned we’re all in this together. Whatever ‘this’ is. I know it’s not normal to be raising a child with your best friend but if you’ll have us I want it to be that way. There’s no one I want to do this with other than you….again, whatever ‘this’ is.”  
Sherlock stopped fiddling with the ladybird clip and looked momentarily stunned. Like he’d hit a malfunction.  
John pressed down a strip to his cheek and this seemed to reboot him.  
“Of course I’ll have you,” he said, before falling into another deep stare, eyes flickering from John’s hand at work to his lap and the frayed ends of the fireside rug. “Lord knows, someone has to teach the girl cool logic and rational thinking to combat her father’s frankly reckless behaviour,” he added.  
“Says the man with the bleeding face?” John snorted.  
The crackle of fire began to die away as its yellow blaze simmered to an orange glow, leaving little more than embers and charred logs in the grate.  
As John finished applying the last of the butterfly stitches, it seemed true darkness had engulfed most of the flat. A single lamp at the bookshelf now their only source of light.  
“And that’s the last of it,” John said, lightly pressing on the final strip applied just above Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Should heal well enough in a few days.”  
“Thank you,” the taller man said, starting to get up from his kneeling position.  
“Wait, no, one more thing.” And John unclipped the ladybird from Sherlock’s curls. “Might damage the no nonsense image,” he said pocketing the hairpin and standing up.  
He held out a hand for Sherlock, who took it in his own, and got to his feet.  
Neither made a move to break the contact. Injuries, and the caring for eachother that followed, always seemed to blur the physical boundaries they had set between themselves - however unspoken.  
After one or the other had no real need for any further assistance, they would both slip back to either sides of their invisible line until the next trauma or illness pushed them together again.  
John gave Sherlock’s fingers a light squeeze.  
“We - Rosie and me - have been saving _Poo in the Zoo_ for tomorrow’s bedtime. I heard it’s a real cracker, you should read it with us after dinner,” John said, edging forward slightly.  
“Wouldn’t miss it.”  
John made out yet another ghost of smile on Sherlock’s lips. The shadows of the dying fire giving his friend’s face a grave tone.  
“John-”  
A swift movement closed the gap between them and John was unsure as to whether the lurch forward had been by him or Sherlock. This particular train of thought, however, was lost to a sudden frantic collision of his lips on his best friend’s. A tight embrace. A violent urge to kick himself for not doing this before. A short, sharp sob. Further kissing. A large handful of Sherlock’s shirt sleeve bunched at the shoulder.  
A long moment of silence just holding, in the dark, as the ashes of the fire cooled.


End file.
